


That which is within as charity

by that_1_incident



Category: Greenleaf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_1_incident/pseuds/that_1_incident
Summary: After the bishop rejects her advances, Rochelle pursues the next best thing: his daughter. (Set in early season 3.)





	That which is within as charity

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Luke 11:41 (New American Standard translation) because God is good, alllll the tiiiiime. 
> 
> (As far as I know, this show has no online fandom to speak of, but that isn't stopping me. Also, Deborah Joy Winans is a snack.)

_Have faith_ , Daddy must've told Charity a thousand times over the course of her lifetime, yet it was he who filed for divorce from Mama, no doubt citing the same blessedly vague "irreconcilable differences" as she had in an attempt to obfuscate her husband's homosexuality on her own divorce decree. And speaking of Faith, she can't forget her good old Uncle Mac - the reason one of her sisters is in the ground and the other has the type of blood on her hands that can't be wiped clean by anybody except for the Almighty Himself, should He deign to do so.

In addition to Charity's husband failing her (and her uncle, and her daddy), even Jabari traded her in for a younger, skinnier model not two days after her agonizing decision to quit the tour. All she wanted was to spare her child from exposure to the den of iniquity that is Kevin's new home, Kevin's new reality, Kevin's new life with Kevin's new boyfriend, and _this_ is how she's repaid for that. People say the modern woman can have everything - or that's what her mama preaches at the annual Day With Lady Mae, anyway - but apparently if you're Charity, you can't have nothing, not really, or at least not for long before a man takes it away. 

\--

"That baby daddy of yours been trifling again?"

Glancing up with a start, Charity's surprised to see the slender figure of Rochelle Cross standing in her office doorway. The other woman is dressed as sharp as ever, her eyebrows arched in concern. 

"Oh…" Charity laughs a little awkwardly. She barely knows the woman, after all, and even if she did, she's not exactly sure she'd know where to start. "The Lord never allows us to suffer beyond that which we can bear," she responds, dodging the question with a shrug.

Rochelle beams at her. "Amen." 

Charity answers with a smile, that same tired old thing she's been pasting across her face for months now, and it feels stretched at the edges, disfigured from overuse and utterly deflated. Her mind is so thoroughly fogged by sadness that it takes a few moments before she realizes Rochelle's apparently aware of every bit of her business, despite the fact that she barely knows the woman from Adam - or should that be Eve?

"Bishop might've let a few details slip about your… situation," Rochelle volunteers by way of explanation as if she'd read Charity's mind, speaking in tones so hushed that Charity has to lean forward to hear her. "Don't worry, I'm discreet." She tilts her head sympathetically. "And if you ever need anyone to talk to…"

While Charity's taken aback by the offer, she's even more surprised by the effect it has on her; namely that she can barely speak around the lump of emotion that's suddenly taken up residence in her throat. It's not that she's doubting what she asserted to Rochelle - on the contrary, she _fervently_ believes the Lord won't ever burden her with a load heavier than she can carry - but it's been so long since another human being looked at her with real benevolence in their eyes, with a flame of compassion burning inside them that truly reflected the Holy Spirit. 

"You know..." she begins quietly, hoping the sheen in her eyes isn't as noticeable as she fears. "You know, I'd like that." 

\--

Although the cafe by the courtyard at Calvary is nice and everything, Charity's secretly grateful when Rochelle suggests they frequent the coffee shop on the ground floor of the Biltmore instead. Calvary's begun to feel like a prison to her of late - her office in particular, but also the church buildings in general, not to mention the family estate. It seems as if there are reminders of who and what she's lost everywhere she looks, from the pre-Nathan family photo of herself and Kevin that beams out from the bio page on the church's website to the stack of business cards still bearing her hyphenated last name. 

The ride she accepts from Rochelle passes mostly in silence as she wills the purr of the other woman's Mercedes to somehow permeate her brain waves, to rearrange her frame of mind and gently place things down where they're supposed to be. By the time they arrive at their destination, she's so lost in thought that it doesn't occur to her to step out of the car until Rochelle opens the passenger door and reaches for her hand. 

\--

Charity doesn't understand why Rochelle would order their coffees to go, and it isn't until she's trailing into the elevator behind the other woman that she realizes Rochelle must keep a room here, likely for business purposes. She doesn't know what the illustrious Ms. Cross does, specifically, just that she's in finance - and is apparently very good at her job, if her contributions to the church are anything to go by - but as they ascend almost to the penthouse, she can't help feeling a little impressed. Rochelle isn't married (never has been, as far as Charity's aware) and because her parents' reputation doesn't exactly precede her, Charity can only assume that she's built all this wealth for herself without a husband, a baby, or an inheritance gleaming precariously from atop a throne of lies. 

"I figured we'd be more comfortable here," Rochelle says kindly as she slips her key card into a door that leads to a positively resplendent space, the furniture a deep mahogany, the bed invitingly luxurious. Charity catches sight of a balcony through the floor-length glass-paned doors on the far side of the room, complete with a cute little table and chairs, although Rochelle makes no move toward it. "Why don't you take a load off?" Rochelle asks instead, pulling out the desk chair and patting the bed.

Charity does as she's told, perching awkwardly as she tries to remember when she last found herself in a hotel room as nice as this. The memory hits her like a ton of bricks - it was that first time with Jabari, the night he'd kissed her breathless and caressed her scars. She feels a blush creep up her neck at the memory of how he did things with his tongue that she didn't know a tongue could do, of how she screamed in ecstasy not once but three times, of how she cried out the Lord's name in vain and was too embarrassed to pray about it afterwards. 

"Something wrong?" Rochelle's doe eyes are quizzical and concerned, and Charity finds herself wondering - not for the first time - how different her life might be if she had a beauty like that. 

"I'm fine," she hears her voice say as if from somewhere outside herself. A tear slides down her cheek. 

\--

She's not sure how it happens, exactly; she'd only ever slept with Kevin until Jabari, and both sets of experiences had meant so very much to her while apparently amounting to a heap of nothing as far as they were concerned, so why _not_ give herself over to Rochelle, to a woman whose kind eyes and sumptuous curves make her feel genuinely wanted and invited for... well, for what's quite possibly the very first time?

Rochelle's surprisingly soft for such a fierce creature, her delicate hands much smaller than Jabari's, much more deliberate than Kevin's as they trace the planes of Charity's body like she knows more about them than Charity herself. Just when Charity's beginning to wonder whether that's a female thing or a Rochelle thing, the other woman's hands snake up her back to unhook her bra, which summarily prompts her to stop thinking about anything at all. She holds her breath and tries not to moan as Rochelle's scarlet-painted lips trace the angles of her clavicle. 

\--

Charity's perfectly aware of what they're doing, where this is going and what Rochelle's intentions are, yet the sensation of the other woman's hand cupping her breast feels startlingly unprecedented even through the fabric. As Rochelle thumbs across her nipple, her now-unfastened bra feels cumbersome and constraining, and she guides the other woman's manicured fingers toward the plunge of her shirt with a shaking hand. Rochelle's fingertips feel swift and smooth across the swell of her chest, and a small gasp escapes her throat when they pinch her nipple. It's more of a reassuring squeeze than anything too rough or painful, and before Charity knows it, she's rolling her hips in response. 

When Rochelle moves to climb on top of her, easing Charity backward onto the bed in the process, she does so with the fluid grace of a woman of means; Rochelle is a highfalutin' member of the Bishop's Round Table if ever Charity saw one, and now Charity's beneath her, grasping the curve of her waist and fumbling at the warm skin beneath her blouse. 

Charity knows two women can't make love - the Lord was very clear on this; a woman can't lie with another woman as with a man - but she can't think of a better word than _loving_ to describe the care with which Rochelle inches her shirt up over her head, discards it, then follows it with the bra beneath. Rochelle eyes her hungrily, makes her feel desirable for - yes, for the first time since Jabari, who already feels so long ago and far away - and she can't help but cry out when Rochelle's lips fasten around her nipple, tongue swirling across the hardened peak before welcoming it into a mouth as devilishly warm and inviting as the depths of Hell. 

\--

The heat of Rochelle's lips as they trail down her stomach makes Charity's muscles tense up in discomfort over the baby weight she hasn't totally lost, the stretch marks that won't go away, yet Rochelle's kiss feels tender and reverent and almost holy in spite of itself. She stiffens anew when Rochelle's nose presses against the soft thatch of hair below the surgical scar she got when she gave birth to Nathan, shivers when Rochelle inhales, then moans softly when the other woman's fingers part the downy tufts that separate her from what she's seeking. 

The first flicker of Rochelle's tongue against her sodden folds is enough to make Charity's spine arch and her eyes flutter closed, and it isn't long until she's scrabbling madly for purchase against the other woman's closely cropped hair, murmuring urgently in what could either be sudden-onset glossolalia or the garbled language of utter bliss. When Rochelle's tongue darts inside her, she cries out in pleasure and thrashes like a madwoman, emitting a series of guttural, satanic groans as Rochelle's fingers proceed to thrust in and out at a quickening tempo she's almost too far gone to even care about, not entirely but almost, almost there. 

"God forgive me," she whispers, and comes.


End file.
